“Chernobyl” was a common noun for Belarussians born after 1986, before we learned it was the name of a place.

It was the explanation given for one girl at my school for having six fingers on one hand and the reason provided for our constant thyroid-gland checks. My thyroid gland is permanently enlarged — considered a possible cause of cancer — and the fear of that illness persists.

That one explosion on a spring morning on April 26, 1986 in the Ukrainian town of Chernobyl became a burden for generations of Belarusssians when the harsh southern winds brought radioactive emissions. Belarus was the country most contaminated by the fallout from Chernobyl, and completely uncontaminated areas are still rare. I wasn’t even born when Chernobyl blew up, but its deadly legacy haunted my childhood.

It’s not yet known what the effects of the tsunami-damaged Fukushima reactors will have on those living close to it, but I hope it will not be like what we had to endure.

I was born on Aug. 31, 1989 in the Belarussian city of Mogilev, 320 miles from Chernobyl. Mogilev was at the epicenter of the radiation cloud that blew toward Belarus after the fire at the Ukrainian nuclear power plant in April 1986. There was no official explanation: nothing on television, nothing on the radio, not a word from officials. They didn’t want to cause panic among the masses who walked the polluted streets unaware of what they were breathing in. Burned skin, lung problems and deteriorated gums were the results — for the lucky ones.

I didn’t experience what happened, but I heard my parents speak of it. When my parents found out about the danger, they decided it was best for my mother and brother to move to Moscow. But my father was to stay in Mogilev and continued working. Breathing was dangerous, but the family needed money.

“We stayed [in Russia] for five months,” my Mom said. “But then we realized that nothing was going to change anytime soon, and we went back to your father.”

Emigration was not a viable option then. I was born three years later. That year, birth rates had fallen to their lowest point because people saw various defects in babies born after the disaster and did not dare to have children. I was lucky to be born without any defects besides the enlarged thyroid gland.

Teachers at school would cheer us up, saying that at least we were immune to the sun radiation unlike people in the rest of the world. They would often point out that because 1989 brought the least number of newborns, we were the luckiest class for having the smallest competition for university seats.

But water was said to be ruining our teeth and foods poisoning us. There were specific places where the radiation levels were lower, allowing us to safely pick mushrooms and berries. I vividly recall seeing large forest areas fenced off with barbed wire laced with scary yellow signs reading “radiation danger.”

My generation became known as “Children of Chernobyl.” Sympathetic foreigners started organizations to help us. They brought children to Europe for several weeks each summer so that we could fix our teeth, eat healthier food and clean our lungs with fresh air. I was eight when I got to be among the lucky ones to visit England for a month. That was also when I realized it was shameful to admit I was a “child of Chernobyl.” Afraid of radiation in food, an English family refused the box of chocolates I brought from Belarus. “Chernobyl” was the only word they said to me pushing the box away as if it was poison.

The misunderstanding of the meltdown consequences in other parts of the world was the most disappointing parts of all. Understanding, I believe, is what people in Japan also need. Children born in Japan years from now may be under serious health and emotional turmoil if the situation worsens, as are children born today in Belarus and their children and grandchildren because radiation really never disappears.

I know that because I was exposed to radiation in my childhood, I will always carry its effects in my body and probably pass them on to my children, regardless of where they are born. But there is nothing I can do now, other than stay away from those fenced forests and fields.

Nastassia Astrasheuskaya is a correspondent for Reuters in Moscow. A shorter version of this story was published by Reuters on March 17.